I Need A Drink
by fakeasain56
Summary: Five times Lestrade wanted a drink, and the time he got a hug instead.


1.

He really, really wanted a drink.

Gabriel Lestrade stared at the phone distantly, wondering how life had come to this; slowly he set the phone down in its cradle.

The rest of the day went in a blur, the only constant thought was a thin hope for a drink. It wasn't until the last person was called, and the last few arrangements were settled that he pulled on his coat, settling it across his shoulders.

His favorite pub across the way was open. Would stay open for quite a few hours yet. Slowly he trudged across the road despite the biting weather, and settled into his usual seat. Then, and only then, did it hit him.

His little brother, the one he had always sworn to protect was killed in a driving accident. Tears burned, and he reached for the comfort of alcohol to wash life away from him.

2.

Sherlock and Anderson were at it again. Both of them fighting loud enough to wake the nearby neighbors, voices sniping and biting. Sherlock had a leading edge with his wittiness, while Anderson determinedly and bull headedly came after him like some kind of dog.

He grimaced slightly as he moved to separate the two- what he wouldn't give for somebody, anybody, who could bring Sherlock down onto a level a little more agreeable with normal human beings.

He got them separated, and took a deep breath for calming purposes- what he wouldn't give for a drink.

3.

The man in the three piece suite was grinning charmingly at him as he leaned against his umbrella. Lestrade didn't bother attempting to look strong. His shirt was rumpled, stained with blood and other nasty fluids, he was missing his tie, and he had just come off of a forty-eight hour shift.

"Mister Holmes." The man's face didn't flicker, but the eyes that clearly proclaimed their relationship to Sherlock (If only by the sheer sharp smugness that hovered in them) might've been surprised.

He needed a drink to deal with a Holmes- any of them at this point.

"I noticed that you and my brother-" The older Holmes started, when Lestrade made a beeline for one of the crates.

"If I'm going to listen to whatever you're going to insult me with, can I at least get a drink before you do?"

He could've sworn the man looked displeased as Lestrade hopefully peered at the label on the boxes. He wasn't going to talk about Sherlock unless he had a cold pint in hand.

4.

His warrant card was missing again.

Lestrade snarled a curse beneath his breath as he knew he had put it in his pocket moments before leaving the station. He had brushed by Sherlock in his mad dash to go out-

And Sherlock had lifted the card. Again.

He groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hand. Now he looked like a fool, with a missing Warrant card, and a bunch of rookies ready to go on their first mission-

He needed a cold, stiff drink, because he could _never_, for the life of him, remember being this stupidly young and full of hope, nervously eager for his first real arrest.

He took a deep breath- oh how he wanted a drink- and bellowed for them to move out.

5.

Lestrade wondered how stupid Sherlock thought him to be. Obviously extremely stupid if he really thought that the DI would easily swallow the lie that Sherlock was wrong. Sherlock never admitted he was wrong, not even when faced with an entire room full of angry coppers ready to beat him into a paste for even suggesting it.

No, Lestrade wasn't that stupid, but that didn't change the fact he was left in a conundrum now.

He had a good idea who the killer was. He knew that Sherlock knew who the killer was.

_I need a bloody drink._

His two teammates were looking at him worriedly, holding the case file in their hands- He had a choice now, did he accuse Sherlock's brand-new flat mate of murder, or did he let it die?

_I only want a drink!_His mind shrieked instead, and he balanced on the edge of indecision.

+1.

Three serial rapists, one child molester, and Lestrade was at the end of his rope. Four cases had landed on his desk in the space of one afternoon, his team was split up and scattered across London, and he was stuck behind his desk perfectly defenseless.

Lestrade was about ready to give his right arm for one of the cases to be unusual enough that Sherlock would notice. That Sherlock would care. Goodness knew he didn't care enough.

The DI snorted to himself as he bent to the paperwork, annoying bugger, and attempted to sort out clues that swam before his eyes into some kind of sense.

Gregsons cutting, bullheaded voice cut through the Yard. "So Lestrade, I see you're finally working on one of your own cases." There was a sneering edge to his voice. "Not going to call in your pet psychopath?"

Lestrade slowly blinked at the man, mind refusing to register what the man had said, instead choosing to clamor, _I've gone beyond needing a drink, I want a cuddle from one of John Watson's jumpers._

It was a stupid thing to think, so determinedly he dismissed it, and turned to the paperwork. Forensics was supposed to be sending up a paper some time- there was just no news when.

"I was talking to you-"

Lestrade stood from his desk. Air. He needed air. Never mind that it was pouring buckets outside, he was going to get himself some air, away from the Yard. It wasn't like they were going to fire him at this point, and he could always claim other duties if anyone asked.

The rain continued to pour mournfully above, filling the gutters. A blob of soaked white caught his eyes, and he turned to the small back alleyway. There was a dog. A soaking wet dog, miserably huddled beneath a thin ledge, seeking shelter from the rain. Cautiously he approached, it's tail wagged miserably at the sight of him, and without meaning too, his hand reached out to brush against warm fur.

The unexpected touch of a living being broke down his last defenses, and there in the rain, hugging a surprised dog, he bawled into the fur.

+2

Lestrade gave the stray dog one last pat, as he hooked the makeshift collar around its neck- the dog was surprisingly old and extremely gentle. Perfect for an old man so touch starved that a single dog could make him bawl.

He scrubbed tiredly at his face, well aware that his clothing was completely soaked through. The dog whined softly, tail wagging. "Lestrade! Lestrade! Is that you?"

The deep and weary voice of John Watson snapped his attention up towards the approaching man. He smiled thinly, stepping forward. The dog trotted alongside him as nice as one pleased.

Lestrade kept his fingers anchored in the back of its fur, soft and light. It was the most touch he had enjoyed for years now, and as sad as it sounded, some inner knot he hadn't known existed was easing deep within him.

John, leaning heavily on his cane, smiled tiredly at him. "I heard from Anderson that you had gone missing. Sherlock's been trying to call you for the past ten minutes- he saw the case you were working on while watching the telly and solved the crime. When you didn't answer he came searching."

Lestrade distantly nodded, fingers still buried in the fur. "I'll get his statement then- Are you alright?"

"Fine. My leg is just acting up." John grimaced slightly; Lestrade moved forward to throw an arm around his shoulder.

"I know a pub around here that we can get you dry and get a pint to drink."

Lestrade refused to notice how nice it was to have a human touch as the two moved into the pub. The bartender offered no complaint when the dripping wet dog and inspector entered. "I'm just here to put a mate at ease, I'll get out of your hair soon enough." Lestrade promised, feeling around for his cellphone. "I'll call Sherlock."

The phone was damp, but still working; Lestrade instantly spotted the fifteen missed messages from Sherlock. He groaned slightly, and began moving out, back into the rain, when warm arms circled around from behind him, drawing him back into the pub towards a seat. "Come Inspector. You're going to catch your cold like this."

The warm words, even warmer arms threatened to completely undo him. And yet-

He leaned back into John's gentle embrace, head falling against the warm jumper, eyes closing for what he promised was only for a moment. He fell asleep to John's tapping on the cellphone, and an arm loosely construed as a hug.

It was good enough.


End file.
